


Marché de Noël

by DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered



Series: Art Therapy [2]
Category: Warrior Nun (TV)
Genre: F/F, Paris - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:15:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered/pseuds/DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered
Summary: The little Christmas in Paris epilogue to Precious  Imperfections that y'all asked for
Relationships: Sister Beatrice/Ava Silva
Series: Art Therapy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077677
Comments: 37
Kudos: 167





	Marché de Noël

_ Where are you?  _

_ They said ten more minutes. There was a cow on the tracks a little way back.  _

_ A cow. Liar.  _

_ I promise. Why would I make it up?  _

_ Maybe you don’t really want to see me. _

_ Oh shut up. _

Beatrice has never smiled with so much affection as she typed the words “shut up.” 

The frequency of their text exchanges has increased over the last week as she prepared to make her way here from London. Her parents were not especially pleased that she planned to spend Christmas elsewhere, but she promised them her dutiful presence at their annual New Year’s gala, and they are satisfying themselves with that, because they sense that they have no choice but to do so. They don’t know who is in Paris that’s so important to her, but they definitely understood from the cool unwavering tenor of her voice that she was not going to be kept from it. 

She’s only coming for four days, but she drags a rolling suitcase which contains her usual assortment of clothing plus some very carefully chosen gifts for Ava. 

She sends another text:

_ You know, we haven’t discussed something.  _

_ What’s that?  _

_ Greetings _

_ Well I know you Brits say happy christmas which sounds completely wrong to my american ears but what about it _

_ No _

_ What then _

_ I mean when we hello _

_ Ohhhhh idk I kind of figured we’d just wing it _

Beatrice has gotten better at winging it than she used to be. But there is still a part of her that doesn’t like not knowing what’s going to happen. 

When the train pulls into Gare du Nord, Beatrice exits the train, rolling her suitcase behind her. She hasn’t been to Paris in a little while, and the pale winter light pouring through the great glass windows and strings of light dangling from the slanted beams are a prelude to a retread of fond memories. The station is crowded and everywhere around, families and friends are finding one another and greeting each other warmly. The atmosphere is bubbling with pre-Christmas excitement. Her eyes scan the crowd, looking for Ava. 

They find each other at the same moment, and start struggling through the teeming crowd as quickly as they can toward each other. Her heart leaps in her chest as she runs up the platform. This moment, right here, is all the gift she needed for Christmas, following Ava’s bright eyes like lodestars through the crowd. 

When they meet, they throw their arms around each other and hang on tight, holding each other through their thick wool coats. Ava’s scent is different from what Beatrice remembers; but of course it is, she’s living a different life. But her embrace is so much the same, full of conviction, certainty. From the moment Ava had finally allowed herself to touch Beatrice, she had never been even a little bit hesitant. She’s not now, either. 

Question answered, Beatrice supposes. 

She draws back to look at Ava. It’s only been six months, but she does indeed feel as though she’s changed somehow. A bit leaner in the face perhaps, a bit more self assured, though still a bundle of kinetic energy. 

To her mild surprise, Ava plants a kiss on one cheek, and then the other, and then they both stand there laughing for a moment. 

“Well,” Beatrice says breathlessly, “you  _ have _ been living in Paris for a bit, haven’t you?” 

“Yeah. Even as broke as I am, it’s amazing.” 

“I have so many questions,” Beatrice says. “Let’s get my stuff to the hotel and you can tell me everything I’ve missed.” 

They flag down a black taxi and ride into the 6th Arrondissement. She’s impressed that Ava has developed entirely serviceable French. Beatrice found herself a quirky old hotel close to Ava’s bookshop and she’s dying to deposit her luggage and stretch out in the four poster bed and have a glass of red wine. 

“Once I get settled, I really want to come see the shop,” she says as they ride over. 

“Oh, we’re definitely doing that. I want you to see what my weird life has been for the last six months. You’ve got to see the little nook where I sleep most of the time. But we have a few days. Rest, let’s have a drink, and then maybe start to think about food.” 

The hotel looks to be from the Belle Epoque, down to the ornate mirrors hanging on the walls in the rooms. The small concierge desk has bunches of dried flowers hanging above it. The room itself is decorated in warm colors, with an extravagant canopy bed, old furniture and framed vintage travel posters. She’s instantly glad she’s chosen it. 

Ava of course notices the wall of books opposite the bed and starts perusing the collection. 

Having taken one of the rooms with a private shower, Beatrice announces that she’s going to go have a hot one. She gives Ava the room key so she can go out for a bottle of wine. 

When she emerges, Ava is sitting, reading one of the old leather bound volumes and sipping at a glass of merlot. Another glass sits on the nightstand waiting for Beatrice. Still in her bathrobe, she sits on the bed and checks to see what Ava is reading. 

“Candide,” Ava says. “In French.” 

“Naturally.” 

Beatrice takes her wine and wrangles her suitcase with the other hand. She pulls out a few small wrapped packages. 

Ava looks up, smirking, feigning annoyance. “I thought we said no presents.” 

“You didn’t think I’d stick to that, did you? Anyway, these aren’t big. I just thought you’d like to have them.” 

Ava takes them warily, as she half expects them to explode. “I don’t really have a place for stuff, you know?” 

“I know. But they’re all little things that I expect you’ll find useful.” 

Ava chooses the squarish one first. She tears off the silver paper. Inside is a small painting that Beatrice did of her from memory, not bigger than six inch by six inch. It’s abstract, but the tiny square somehow holds all of Ava’s vibrations in it. “Oh my gosh,” Ava says, covering her mouth. 

“It’s very small, you can keep it in a backpack or something.” 

“This is beautiful.” 

“It wasn’t hard to make it beautiful as long as I stayed true to my subject.” 

The second package is small and flat, and when Ava tears off the paper, she finds that it contains a pair of elegant lined leather gloves. Ava gasps. “Oh my god.” 

“You mentioned not having good gloves in one of your recent texts.” 

“But these are… these are too…” Ava stops herself. “These are amazing. Thank you.” 

Beatrice knows where Ava’s initial thoughts were headed.  _ These are too nice for me.  _ But she’s training herself away from that kind of thinking. Gratified, Beatrice hands her the final gift, a small envelope. 

Ava shakes it, holds it up next to her ear. “What are you, my grandma? Please tell me it isn’t money.” 

“Just open it.” 

She does, and inside it is a few gift cards for a Parisian pizza chain. Ava snorts with laughter. “You bought me pizza?” 

“If you don’t like it I can take it back,” Beatrice teases. 

“Are you kidding? This is by far the best gift.” Ava comes over and throws her arms around Beatrice again. “Thank you. Really.” 

Standing here in Ava’s arms, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, is conjuring feelings and memories of things that are unpromised on this trip. They are “winging it”. Ava’s warm breath on the side of her neck is going to have her out of this robe if she doesn’t back up a bit. 

“I should get dressed. We should figure out dinner.” 

“I guess I should let go of you, then,” Ava says. Her voice is entirely too warm. 

Reluctantly, they withdraw from each other and discuss options. “I know,” Ava says. “The Christmas market by the Jardin des Tuileries. It’s not a fancy sit-down dinner, but it’s the most perfect thing for this time of year.” 

  
  


Evening has fallen by the time they arrive at the Marché de Noël. Beatrice has never been in Paris at Christmas and is overwhelmed by the charm of it: the rows and rows of vendors in their little booths shaped like gingerbread cottages and strung with twinkling lights, the ice skating rink flanked by statues of snowmen and elves, the smells of all the wonderful foods from the booths. Ava is wearing her new gloves and they’re walking through the rows together, holding onto each other’s arms. It feels as natural as breathing. 

The night is pleasant in its chill, enough to turn their cheeks and the tips of their noses a little bit red. Beatrice would be lying to herself if she said that Ava with her earmuffs and her rosy cheeks was not the most charming sight on earth. Ava points at a booth. “Soup!” 

Beatrice allows herself to be dragged over to the booth, where a portly couple is spooning soups out of deep copper pots that gleam warmly under the lights. Ava opts for a soupe au pistou, while Beatrice chooses a fish chowder that seems exactly right for the weather. Ava insists on paying, and stuffs a few colorful euro notes into the vendors’ hands. They walk together, eating out of little disposable cups with wooden spoons. 

“You didn’t have to pay, you know. This isn’t technically a date.” 

“Meh,” Ava says, “you get the next one.” 

“So tell me about your book. I know you said it’s about us, but what specifically?” 

Ava spoons a little soup into her mouth before answering. “God, this is really good,” she mutters. “It’s just about my awakening, I guess.” 

“Which is that?” 

“All of them. I mean, it was a personal awakening, meeting you, and seeing so closely and intimately what it is to have purpose and focus. And it was, uh, obviously a sexual awakening too.” 

It’s Beatrice’s turn to smirk. “Saphically speaking?” 

“Yeah, that,” Ava chuckles, “but also? Just, experiencing sex that’s about a sharing of yourself, sex that means something. That expresses. That was also new for me.” 

Beatrice feels a pang of wanting. “I don’t know how to do it any other way.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to.” Ava is more serious as she says this. Her gaze has some of that old weight to it. And then, her attention shifts: “Look! Charcuterie! C’mon!” 

They make their way down the row of food vendors, trying the cheeses, the breads, the saucisson, the roasted chestnuts. Ritualistically, they take turns paying for things. When they’ve sated themselves, they finish with some hot chocolates and gingerbread. Beatrice is warm inside despite the chill. 

They wander over to the ice skating rink and watch the skaters glide by. “Do you skate?” Beatrice asks.

“No. I’ll bet you do though. I bet you’re good, too.” 

“Not bad,” Beatrice admits. “Do you want to?” 

“Oh no. I may do great at standing still but I am a klutz in motion. Me zipping around on ice with knives strapped to my feet seems like a bad idea.” 

“Come on.” Beatrice is excited now at the prospect of gliding across the ice with Ava, even if she’s terrible at it. “I’ll hold onto you. I won’t let you fall.” 

Ava groans. She relents. 

They rent some skates, and Beatrice guides her slowly out onto the ice. “Hold onto me,” she instructs. And Ava does. 

It’s a delicate exercise of trust, but they manage a few slow, shaky circuits around the rink as Ava finds her feet. “This is the kind of thing,” she says, “that I imagine is probably super fun once you get good.” 

But the longer they stay at it, the more solid she gets. She never lets go of Beatrice’s arm, though, even after it seems like she has her feet. They glide slowly around the ice, and Ava tries to match the shift of her weight to the way Beatrice is moving. They find a fragile sync. For a moment, under the hazy sky with its fat moon, surrounded by the twinkling lights of the Marché de Noël, they float together as if by magic. A few little flakes begin to drift down from the sky and dust their hair and shoulders. 

“Snow,” Ava murmurs. 

When their time on the ice ends, they’re both quiet as they readjust to walking on the solid ground again. Beatrice couldn’t have imagined Ava getting any prettier, but with snowflakes on her eyelashes and scarf, she’s practically an angel. She slips an arm around Ava’s waist and they stroll through the gentle snow, under the lights, with the scent of Christmas, of pine trees and mulled wine, filling their senses. 

They decide to get some, and it’s deliciously rich, ripe with the flavors of clove and orange peels and spices. 

They stop on the cobblestones, steaming cups in hand, and Ava looks at her. “I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you too.” 

“You’ve always had my heart, you know. That hasn’t changed.” 

Beatrice breathes deeply and watches her breath roll into a white cloud in front of her before vanishing. “And you’ve always had mine. Along with a few other body parts I don’t think we need to name.” 

“Your mind?” Ava suggests mischievously. 

“That’s one of them.” The way her mouth quirks when she teases, Beatrice thinks. The red-purple tint to her lips after a cup of mulled wine. 

Ava’s face turns earnest, now. “I didn’t want to promise anything because I didn’t know if seeing each other was going to feel the same. And it isn’t the same. Because we’re not the same. It’s different. But it’s better. More balanced. It’s exactly what I was hoping; that I would grow enough to feel satisfied with myself.” 

Beatrice closes her eyes. “Ava…” She is going to kiss this woman if she keeps talking like this. 

“We didn’t use the big, heavy words before,” Ava goes on, “because I didn’t feel like what I had to offer you was good enough, that the big heavy words would just betray how flimsy I felt as a person. And I didn’t use them, so you didn’t. And that all makes sense.” 

Ava’s gloved hand settles on her shoulder. 

“But I can’t imagine who else I’d want to be standing here with on a chilly Christmas Eve-Eve night, drinking mulled wine in a softly falling snow than you. And I can’t imagine standing here like this, and looking at you with those wine-red lips and those eyes that show me your whole entire soul, in this softly falling snow, and not kissing you.” 

Beatrice curls her free hand around the back of Ava’s neck, and they lean into each other. Their noses are cold against each other’s faces, but Ava’s mouth is so very warm, so very soft and welcoming. They stand there, kissing softly under the string of lights, until someone passes by muttering the French equivalent of “get a room.” 

“I do have a room,” Beatrice points out, drawing back from their kiss. 

“Which is great, because I don’t,” Ava chuckles. 

“I want one thing.” 

“What’s that?” 

“The only Christmas present I want from you.” 

“Okay.” 

“Use the big, heavy words.” 

Ava kisses her again and runs her gloved hand over the snow accumulating on Beatrice’s hair. “I love you. I always did. I still do. I’ve changed for the better because of knowing you and having you in my life. You’ll always be my first real, adult love.” 

Beatrice kisses her again. “I’ve always felt the same. I loved you, and didn’t want to say it because I didn’t want to force something you weren’t ready for or weren’t clear on. Salvius even spotted it in my work. I never told you this, but she looked at my final project and said, Ah, so you fell in love. And I did. I wasn’t sure if I’d still feel the same now, but it seems that my heart doesn’t let go of you so easily.” 

“Yeah? You love me?” Ava asks after a moment, looking pleased with herself.

“I do. Don’t get cocky about it.” 

“Oh, we’re past that. You’re an incredible woman. If you love me, I’m damn well gonna be cocky about it.” 

They quickly finish the rest of their wine. “Let’s get a cab,” Beatrice says. “You can show me the bookstore tomorrow.” 

“Oh, where are we going now?” 

“My bed, unless you object.” 

“I do not.” 


End file.
